Enschuldigung, ich bin ein Amerikanner

I desperately want a nape piercing.
Get better, Chris, or I will personally induce your third back surgery.
This is very, deeply annoying. I went to my bookstore yesterday, specifically to find and buy a moleskine notebook, pocket-sized, squared paper, and they didn't have one. It was, to say the least, ridiculous. Of course, I did, somehow, manage to buy myself a dress and a pair of adorable pedal pushers, but that's beside the point. How am I going to be creative on the go without my favourite notebook?
Maybe the Lord's trying to teach me a lesson about buying overpriced journals.
It's getting colder, and for some reason, my dry-cleaning hasn't been picked up. This means, of course, that I am going to have to finish painting the miniature that I've started, for some reason or other.
I am sick to death of abstractism (she said, in her rambling way).
Actually, I was thinking of poetry.
I was sitting, two weeks or so ago, beside a thoughtful young man who was quoting a poem, and I, very guiltily, half-listening, realised that I've forgotten all or nearly all of the poetry that I used to know by heart. Even William Blake's 'Tyger.'
Well, we'll have to just deal with it, shan't we?
I wrote a flash fic the other night. It's very, very short, and doesn't have an end, so I'll type it up here.
Warning: contains profanity and uber-fluff.

She was very, very thirsty when she got out of bed; so thirsty that a litre of water wouldn't help. Neither did tea, or juice, or beer. She tried it all, and slunk back to her room feeling rather defeated.
He was still asleep, broad back solidly toward her, ink-strewn right shoulder traced by the light flickering sneakily through the drapes. The sun had come up outside, but it was still very dark in her room. It was meant to be.
She didn't want to disturb him, of course, because logically, that would be very unkind. He would growl nonsense words, and be rather cross, even if he did curl a possessive arm round her and pull her decisively into his very warm chest, and kiss her closed, dry mouth with his soft cherub's lips. Obviously, she wouldn't do that. She very much wanted to, though.
Instead, she sat at the edge of the bed, fumbling for the cardboard box on her end table, and match (she didn't hold with lighters), and struck up a Davidoff. She could only just make out the bold lettering pasted on the front of the box, 'rauchen ist tödlich!'--and the little skull and crossbones. She couldn't read the fine print, though, in the dark.
She inhaled deeply, feeling tar and nicotine spread through her choked, shrivelled lungs. She liked this very much; it was extraordinary, relaxing. Never as good as him, of course. She'd admitted this not very long ago, and only to herself. She liked him more than smoking her long German cigarettes, more than she liked swimming in a cool tropical ocean, more than eating shortbread or drinking beer brewed by Trappist monks in Belgium.
'Stop fucking smoking that utter shite.' he growled, almost unintelligibly. She couldn't help smiling. 'I'm going to tear every single fag up, and feed them to my mother's goldfish. She's going to be very upset with you when they take ill.' her smile deepened.
'And why,' she luxuriated in one more long drag before stubbing out the hardly started cigarette, 'would she be upset with me, seeing as you've fed them my fags?'
He turned round, grey green eyes glowing just faintly, phosphorently, in the near darkness. 'Because, obviously, you've compelled me, with your filthy habit,' he took her round the middle, with embarrassing effortlessness, and dragged her down beside him.